Slaine and Inaho's Platonic Bedroom (mis)Adventures
by icinks
Summary: Slaine is a newly published author and an aspiring artist. Inaho is a graduate research student. The only things they have in common are their lack of money and a mutual friend. And, of course, the single-bed apartment they rent together.
1. The Nightly Trials of Kaizuka Inaho

**a/n:** This ridiculous series spawned from the realization that my main fics, Homeward and Shattered Chains, have a whole lot of bedroom scenes for the amount of nothing going on, and that I generally enjoy writing these two, well... platonically in bed together. Despite the original inspiration, this series is completely unrelated to the Homeward series. 100% platonic, 200% nonsense (probably at least 50% ship teasing because I cannot restrain myself even in a platonic fic). Please enjoy the frivolity.

 _Dedicated to the lovely ryoku1, who, ever an inspiration, encouraged me to write this absurdity._

* * *

"I thought they were going to fix this," muttered Inaho as he twisted his apartment key in the lock for the fourth time, with no effect. He wiggled the doorknob. Wiggled and twisted together. Pulled, wiggled, and twisted. Nothing. Well, you get what you pay for, and he certainly wasn't paying for much. He stood for a moment, staring at the rusty old knob and its rusty old keyhole, wondering why anyone would even bother putting a lock on such a shoddy place. The only valuables inside were the people, and if his roommate hadn't been paying half the rent, he would gladly hand the man over to a burglar, or whatever nefarious person wandered in and would take him. As he made a mental note of when a good time to call the landlord would be, he reached for the keyhole one last time. Before he could fit the key inside, it sprung away from him and the door swung open.

A rather lanky young man was standing in the entrance dressed only in boxers, with hair not unlike a bird's nest, still clutching the pillow he had no doubt just climbed from the bed with.

"Inahooo…" he drawled out with the tail end of a particularly cavernous yawn.

"It's Kaizuka," was the terse correction, "Are you going to let me in, Troyard?"

The disheveled one seemed to only just realize he was standing in the way, and stepped aside. After closing the door behind Inaho, he turned and trudged back to the bed, flopping into its fluffy recesses with a contented sigh.

Through many unfortunate circumstances and events, Inaho had somehow ended up sharing not only an apartment with this person, but also a bed. Now, generally the name "full size" or "double" implies that the thing is, in fact, large enough for two people. But that only works if those two people are placed in unnatural alignment, from which they do not move throughout the course of the night. Given the reality that even close friends and siblings rarely prefer sharing a bed on a regular basis, this particular one was not nearly large enough for two practical strangers, even if they did sleep laid out like sardines in a can. He would opt for the floor, but this arrangement was for at least six months. Putting up with it was the only option, as there was absolutely no room for another mattress, or even a futon, had he possessed the money to purchase one.

The keys clanked in a dish on the table as he sat down to pull off his shoes. He nearly leaned against a drying watercolor as he did so.

Slaine Troyard was, in his estimation, something of an eccentric. They hadn't really spoken much, their schedules being very different thus far, but from what he had been told, and gathered through observation, his new roommate was an author and an artist, and maybe a few other things. Whether he had published anything, or was any good, he neither knew nor cared. The art was the main issue. This apartment was small, too small for wet paint to be lying around for any period of time. He had already, in the space of three days, ruined two shirts by brushing against something he hadn't realized was not dry. When he had demanded replacements, or compensation, or an apology at the very least, all he had received was a dismissive wave. Slaine was "in the zone" or some such nonsense.

After about fifteen minutes of fighting with the WiFi, which seemed to work only when he was not at home, and eventually hacking their neighbor's for the basic human right of checking one's email, he quickly prepared for bed and slipped in beside the fast-asleep Slaine. Then began the usual ordeal. First it was the curtain, which inevitably was left slightly open because Slaine liked to look at the stars as he fell asleep. But the street light just outside rivaled the sun in its brilliance, rendering him sleepless until the curtain was shut entirely. Perhaps he should invest in an eye mask. Of course, closing the curtain required climbing over Slaine, who never seemed to remain still in times like these. Sure enough, just as his knee connected with the mattress in the narrow gap between Slaine and the wall beneath the window, Slaine rolled over, tipping his balance and sending him flying backwards. He wouldn't go down without a fight, however. The curtain rod was bound to be strong, it looked strong, so he grabbed the curtain in one graceful hoist, and propelled himself towards the window. It was an unfortunate miscalculation, since this particular curtain rod belonged to this particular apartment, which was, for all intents and purposes, hardly fit for human inhabitance. The thing sprung from the wall like cork freed from a champagne bottle and flew across the room at a terrifying velocity. He heard a crash, and hoped it wasn't the only lamp they owned. Not that he even liked the hideous fixture.

Resigning himself to a night of torturous luminosity, he shoved the somehow still sleeping Slaine back to the far side of the bed. Then came the second tribulation – wresting his share of the blankets back from the fiend's death grip. But by this point, Slaine had rolled around so much that he was completely cocooned in them. Retrieving even a corner would require unraveling him. He sighed, exhausted from the late hours finishing his experiment at the lab, and cast a glance around the room for something else that might suffice for one night. His eyes landed on the curtain. Well, at this point…

Choking a little on the dust and nicotine that had clearly survived through at least three previous tenants, he snuggled under the thick old curtain. Thankfully the cold weather was not upon them yet, and the apartment was not terribly cold. There was one good side to all this – if Slaine was swaddled in all those blankets, he couldn't fling his limbs about all night as he usually did. Inaho closed his eyes, glad to have avoided at least one of the usual trials, and, of course, forgot to set his alarm.


	2. Of Bats and Oranges

Slaine stirred his tea with the end of a paintbrush, his mind wandering as he stared vacantly at the empty page before him. He had managed to publish one novel, just barely, with the help of a wealthy friend, but it was not a particularly lucrative achievement. He needed to write something big, something that would fly off the shelves and get him out of this dump. And this time, he wanted to do it on his own. Otherwise, he'd never be able to repay her, and he certainly didn't need to owe any more people than he already did. Debts were piling up, both in favors and finances, but it was exciting to finally be able to support himself even if it meant starting at the bottom. Unfortunately, living in this environment was hardly conducive to productivity. The neighbors were loud, there was a rather thunderous train that passed through several times a day, and the living situation was, well… it _was_.

He was not yet sure what to make of his new housemate. Though Inaho was absent for the majority of the day, when he was around there always seemed to be some kind of nuisance to deal with. Or he was being judged silently with those eerie blank looks. Inaho was an oppressive presence, saying nothing except to demand or complain, and the man invariably smelt of citrus. Not that that really had to do with anything, or that he had something against the particular genus of fruits, but it irritated him nonetheless. He found the association was giving rise to an odd distaste for oranges. Aside from the weird smell, there were other things about Inaho that were strange and even alarming. For one thing, he seemed to subsist off of nothing but eggs in their various forms of preparation, which could hardly be considered normal or healthy. He also spent an absurd length of time in the bath each evening. One night Slaine had thought perhaps, when two hours had passed, something might be the matter, but when he opened the door he discovered Inaho fast asleep in the tub. The cords from his earbuds trailed to the pocket of the bathrobe that hung nearby, and deep within the fluffy ginger recesses Slaine could make out the bright LED light of a phone, which blasted some kind of strange, vulgar music. And then, just a few mornings ago, he had woken up and found Inaho sleeping soundly under the drapes, which had been torn viciously from the window. Their only lamp had been smashed to pieces, too. He hoped this wasn't a sign of violent tendencies, but perhaps there was some explanation. He didn't dare ask.

Yet, despite all of his oddities, thus far living with Inaho was at least bearable. After all, he was hardly ever there during the day. Slaine took a sip of his tea, pondering how to fill the blank page that was still staring back at him. He needed to at least get a good outline going, perhaps note down some character ideas. A protagonist would be a good first step. Just as he picked up his pen, a strange scratching sound caught his attention and he glanced around. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He popped off the pen cap with his thumb and leaned forward to write, when suddenly he felt something fall between his back and the chair. With a yell he leapt to his feet, nearly overturning the table in the process, and dashed to a safe distance before turning to look. There on the old stained seat cushion was a small bat. Slaine gaped at it for a long, bewildered moment, and then promptly dove to the bed and pulled the blanket over him.

"What are you doing?" came a voice from near the door.

Slaine blinked at him from the tiny hole around his face formed by the edge of the blanket. He must have left the door unlocked, or been too distracted with his flight to notice the usual racket at the keyhole. "There's a bat!" he explained, nodding his blanketed head in the general direction of the chair.

Inaho said nothing, but simply crossed the room to have a closer look. He gazed down at it, and then nodded very slightly. "It's a fruit bat. It's harmless."

"I don't care what it is! Get rid of it!" He felt irrationally enraged at Inaho's casual attitude, a mockery of his own recent terror.

"Why are you hiding?"

Slaine pulled the blanket over his face. "What if it flies around?!"

"Bats can't fly once they're grounded," came the swift and composed answer, "they need to drop from something elevated first. It's not going anywh-" he was cut off as the thing skittered off the chair and promptly flew straight at his face. He ducked, just barely, and fell back against the kitchen sink.

"Pff- ha ha ha!" Slaine roared, forgetting to be alarmed that the thing was now airborne.

Looking very offended, attacked, and wide-eyed, Inaho simply stared at Slaine for about thirty seconds before making a dash for the bed.

"Hey! Find your own spot!" Slaine complained as his sanctuary was suddenly invaded. The bat had flown so precisely towards Inaho's face that one would be hard put to argue that it hadn't been intentionally aiming for him.

"I think it's rabid…" Inaho announced in a hushed voice, as if the bat could hear him. Slaine noticed he was actually trembling a bit from the adrenaline of his recent surprise.

"Really?! Why?" He knew next to nothing about the creatures and was genuinely interested to know what about its behavior said 'rabies'.

"It wanted to hurt me," answered Inaho, as if it was too obvious to merit saying.

Slaine raised an eyebrow, "Well you don't have to be rabid for that."

Inaho shot him an unamused look and pulled the blanket closed so that there were no places for the bat to enter.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Slaine let out a loud sigh. "Well, now what do we do?"

"We call the police."

"The police?!" That seemed a little extreme, but then again he had never heard of an incident of an animal having rabies in this area. If Inaho was right, it would be seriously bad news.

"Do you have your phone?" asked Inaho.

After a hasty search through the sheets, he located his phone and clumsily pressed a few random buttons, since he couldn't remember which one was supposed to make the screen light up. "Uh… the battery died." He hardly ever used his phone, so naturally he also hardly ever remembered to charge it.

Inaho exhaled a small huff and rifled through his own pockets, at first calmly but then gradually more desperate.

"You left it on the table," stated Slaine, not even bothering to confirm with his eyes. He remembered that Inaho had set it on the table when he went to look at the bat. Served him right for getting cocky.

But they really needed a phone.

Meanwhile, the air under the blanket was getting unbearably hot and devoid of oxygen. Slaine fanned himself with his phone, which produced no wind and only made him hotter from the exercise. The scent of citrus permeated every breath he took, until he wanted to scream and free himself from this absurd prison.

"Is something the matter?" asked Inaho, looking straight at him with his usual round, expressionless eyes.

Slaine resisted the urge to throw his phone at the other's face. "Why do you always smell like oranges?!" he demanded instead.

Another blank look. A very, very long one. And then Inaho raised a hand and sniffed it pensively. "Oh. That. It's the bathroom soap at the lab. Do you not like it?"

It was Slaine's turn to give a blank look. Words abandoned him as he resigned himself to his fate. Eventually, Inaho grew tired of waiting and suffocating under the blanket and made the plunge for his phone. The bat had long since vanished, and the people responsible for dealing with wild animals spent the larger part of the evening searching the tiny apartment for it. At long last they captured the poor thing, and departed with it.

The bat tested negative for rabies, and they were told that it was probably just sleepy and hungry and had smelled fruit in Inaho's general direction.


	3. The Trouble with Change

"You see, if we raise the bed, we can store things underneath!"

Inaho listened as Slaine explained his newest idea. It seemed to have potential, and he was willing to try pretty much anything if it would give them more space. The longer they lived there, the more crowded it became as their things somehow expanded, all without them actually bringing anything new into the apartment. It was a good thing they were both broke, because otherwise they probably wouldn't be able to see the floor. There was only one problem with Slaine's plan.

"What if I fall out?"

Raising the bed would mean a much greater fall, and he had indeed been kicked out of the bed on more than one occasion. Rolling onto the floor was one thing, falling from a height was another.

"We can switch, I'll take the outside."

He preferred the outside, since it was warmer (being away from the window) and didn't require climbing over Slaine to get in and out, but this might be worth the sacrifice. Slaine would probably fall out of his own accord, but that was hardly his concern.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to try it for a while, at least. How do you propose we raise it?"

He wasn't particularly expecting a useable answer, but it would be a good idea to hear Slaine's plan before suggesting his own.

"These!" Slaine held out a catalogue, which sported several university dorm room accessories on its opened page. In the bottom corner was a photo of some black, cube-like things, for a hefty price.

"A little expensive…" he mused aloud, reading over the little advertisement blurb, "but if we split the cost it should be alright."

On his way home the following day, Inaho made the purchase. It took them the better part of an hour to maneuver the bed in such a way that the risers could be slid under the edges. Slaine nearly dropped the bed on Inaho twice, the first time because of a spider, and the second because clouds of dust got in his eyes. Yet miraculously Inaho was spared being crushed, and they swapped places before Slaine could have a third go at it.

When eventually everything was in place and the bed firmly set upon its new pedestals, they went about sweeping and removing the various stray articles from under and behind it. The new setup afforded approximately double the previous space, and now some larger items would fit neatly under the bed. At last they finished, and stood back to admire their work. The room looked much cleaner and more spacious now.

By the time everything was in order, it was quite late, and the two turned in for the night. Inaho reached to close the curtain, which they had since repaired, and was now right beside him, but paused when he looked out through the window. The night sky was shimmering with stars, and a soft ring of pale light encircled the half-moon.

"Nice, isn't it?!" said a voice far too close to his ear.

He turned his head to find Slaine's face just centimeters from his own. "Why are you…"

"I can't see from over there. No wonder you always closed the curtain…"

Inaho scooted as far towards the wall as would allow. "You're too close," he protested as Slaine accordingly scooted as well, so as to gain a better view of the night sky. Inaho rolled over to face the wall, wondering if this would become an every night ritual. If it wasn't one thing, it was another.

"What's your zodiac sign?" asked Slaine cheerfully, not even slightly drowsy though it was nearly midnight.

Inaho sighed. "I don't know," he replied, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that sleep would come quickly.

"How can you not know?!" He could feel Slaine sit up in surprise. The sudden cold draft of air made him shiver, and he clutched at the blanket before it could be pulled completely from him.

"I don't particularly care. So, I don't know."

Slaine was not satisfied with that answer. "When is your birthday?"

"February 7th."

"Hm," Slaine thought for a moment, "Aquarius. Caring, inventive, unemotional, _stubborn_ … sounds about right."

Inaho pretended to have fallen asleep. But it was quite cold, being one of the first chilly nights of the season, and so he found it difficult to get comfortable. A steady draft was seeping from the invisible cracks around the window. This was precisely why he preferred the side away from it, but he also did not relish the idea of falling out of the bed.

"Are you cold?" asked Slaine. He was still trying to see out the window, because his voice was still very close. Inaho continued to feign sleep.

"We can turn on the heat, you know," Slaine persisted.

"That's expensive." The words were out of his mouth before he remembered he was 'asleep'. "I'm fine," he added, yawning for emphasis as he willed the shivers away.

"You'll get sick. That costs money _and_ time. Besides, I'm cold, too."

With a long sigh, he looked over his shoulder at Slaine. "Fine."

He felt Slaine slip out of bed, not without a stumbling thump that no doubt was the result of forgetting about the new bed height, and then a few moments later, "How does this work again?"

"Just turn the dial."

He heard the squeaking of the dial as Slaine fiddled with it. "It's not doing anything."

Hauling himself reluctantly out of bed, Inaho trudged over to take a look. Indeed, it was broken. Not that it was much of a surprise, but he wished he had at least anticipated it, and thought to have it fixed before the cold weather set in.

"I guess… we'll manage…" he said unconvincingly, noting how the temperature had dropped in just the past hour.

"There's always the curtain," suggested Slaine.

Inaho gave him a lifeless look. Was that supposed to be a serious suggestion, or was Slaine mocking him? He could not see his expression in the dark. Yet another sigh escaped him, which became more of a yawn. It really was late. Resigned to their fate, they slunk back to bed.

* * *

Inaho jolted awake. Someone had just sighed loudly into his ear, and it did not take him long to register who. His first instinct was to push Slaine away, but then he realized he was actually quite comfortable and warm. A thin arm coiled around his chest, one leg clamped over his knees, and a face was nearly buried in the crook of his neck. Inaho stared up at the ceiling. It really was warm…

He had drifted back to sleep at some point but it was not long before he was woken yet again. This time, it was the cold that dragged him from his slumber. Slaine had let go of him, and turned to his other side. He was a little miffed, and too groggy to think clearly, so rather than doing the logical thing and getting up to put more layers on, he simply scooted closer to Slaine. The sleeping one grunted softly as Inaho drowsily squished against him, basking in the warmth.

The next time he woke up, it was to the horrible sensation of falling. And then pain as he landed with a thud on the floor, all tangled in the blanket, and with Slaine's weight on top of him. For a moment he simply stared into the darkness, stunned. How on earth he had ended up on the bottom when Slaine had for this very reason taken the edge, was beyond him, but for the time being all he wanted was to get out from under his roommate and climb back into their comparatively warm bed. Rather than climbing off of him, or apologizing, or anything, Slaine did not move. Then the appalling realization hit him that Slaine was still asleep. Inaho shifted and squirmed in an attempt to free one of his arms, which might help him extract himself from this ludicrous prison, but it only served to rouse Slaine just enough to make himself more comfortable on his new, live bed. Eventually he gave up, and finding Slaine made a rather warm blanket, and that he was far too exhausted for this, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When morning finally came, his eyes gradually opened and focused on the ceiling.

"Ah, you're awake," said Slaine as he exited the bathroom, "The bath is still hot if you want to go hop in. I'm about to make breakfast, if you'd like some."

It was rare that they both got up this early, but it had been a strange, rather restless night. Maybe Slaine had not slept as well as he seemed to have. Shivering, Inaho crept from the tangled blanket and made his way to the steamy bathroom.

"Oh, and I called about the heat," Slaine added, his head buried in the refrigerator, "They're sending someone to fix it in an hour."

Inaho nodded sleepily, and then continued on to his cozy bath. As he slipped into the hot water and leaned his head back contentedly, he thought, all in all, that Slaine wasn't really all that bad. A little strange, perhaps, but somehow… endearing.

* * *

 **a/n:** *repeats the word "platonic" to self* (I really needed to indulge after recent chapters of Shattered Chains… writing angst is so draining ;;)


	4. Murder and Sandwiches

"How can you read that stuff before bed?"

For the past week or so, Slaine had been staying up to all hours reading horror novels. The current one, a thin paperback volume, had an illustration of a bloody kitchen knife on the cover. It was very much like the ordinary ones they kept in a drawer beside the sink.

"I'm getting a feel for the genre," Slaine answered absently, his eyes never leaving the page.

Inaho glanced sidelong at him. "You're… writing a horror novel?"

He had never particularly cared what it was that Slaine did all day, but there was something oddly unsettling about the idea of him concocting horrific scenarios and scribbling out murder and mayhem by the hour while he was not at home. Slaine seemed more of the action and adventure type, maybe even romance if his social life was just a bit more colorful, or extant at all, but these things were perhaps less predictable than he had imagined. A person's internal workings were not necessarily a mirror of their outward character, and creativity was not limited to a person's experiences alone. Not that he had read much in the way of fiction, finding it rather tiresome generally, as it served little purpose in his daily life. The occasional classic was enough to satisfy his literary curiosity.

"I'm considering it," replied Slaine, with a bit more attention this time. Cyan eyes darted momentarily in his direction, and he caught a glimpse of surprise in them. He had never asked about Slaine's writing before.

So as not to appear overly interested, Inaho pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes. He had, miraculously, grown accustomed to the street light, and the moon light, and the book light, and every other light that seemed determined to thwart his ability to sleep. He drifted off to the sound of pages softly turning, hoping his dreams would be pleasanter than the subject of their contents.

* * *

 _Clink. Clink… clink…_

Inaho opened his eyes slowly, roused by what sounded like jars knocking into one another. He rolled over, and then sat up, peering through the darkness in the direction of the kitchen area. A stream of light was pouring from the refrigerator, and silhouetted against shelves of leftovers and whatever other scant food they could afford, was a person. A quick glance down at the bed beside him confirmed that Slaine was not there, and that the one rifling through their condiments was indeed his housemate. For a long, confused moment, he tried to determine what exactly was going on. He squinted at his phone for the time, the light nearly blinding him. 3:18 am.

Was Slaine still up reading at that hour, and decided he was hungry? It was odd, though. He hadn't moved from the fridge. In fact, he hadn't moved at all since Inaho first spotted him. Well, it wasn't his problem, so long as he didn't let all the cold air out of the refrigerator. Perhaps he would mention it to him tomorrow, but for now, he would return to sleep.

As seemed a regular part of his lot in life these days, or rather nights, Inaho was woken yet again by more noise. This time it was coming from the table, where Slaine was now trying to do something in the dark.

"Slaine?" he inquired at last.

Slaine did not respond, or even look up at him, but continued fumbling with something on the table.

"Slaine…" he repeated, a little louder. "What are you doing?"

Perhaps it was none of his business what his housemate did in the middle of the night, but he would like to know why it was that he had been so rudely awoken in the process. Twice, even.

Receiving no response yet again, Inaho decided to investigate. A passing glance happened to land upon the book Slaine had been reading, tossed in the bed and illumined by the moonlight in all its gruesome detail, and he shuddered involuntarily. The other night it had been some sort of supernatural thriller novel, and though he was inclined to disbelieve that sort of rubbish, it was all eerily lurking in his mind now. He approached the table, where Slaine still stood motionless with something in his hand, and halted for a moment to take in the scene.

The thing Slaine was holding was a knife, which dripped with something thick and dark. For a brief, horrific moment, he believed the liquid to be blood. But then he recalled the jars from earlier, and saw the bread upon the table, strewn with far too much jam. And finally, he understood. Slaine was sleepwalking.

Inaho groaned inwardly. Of course he would manage to wind up sharing a living space with one of that rare species of adults prone to sleepwalking. He would have to get him back to bed somehow, and remove the knife from his hand at least before he ended up making more of a mess, or worse, injuring himself. Inaho approached slowly, padding as quietly as possible around the table to him. He had nearly grasped the knife when, in accordance with his usual luck, the floor betrayed him and creaked loudly. Instantly, Slaine looked over at him. Those sea green eyes, usually so animated with life and emotion, were flat and strange, and seemed to look straight through him. He felt a shiver run down his spine at the spectacle, those eyes and that knife, staring at him like the agents of terror through the darkness. Once Slaine had realized his presence, his expression changed somewhat, and he pulled his hand away.

Inaho withdrew as well. As tired as he was, he did have enough sense not to provoke someone who was sleepwalking, especially when they were holding a weapon. And, especially, when they had been reading, and were now possibly dreaming, about murder and other savage things. The sandwich-making looked benign enough, but he would need a different strategy just in case. It wasn't uncommon for sleepwalkers to react violently towards those who tried to wake or interfere with them. Perhaps, if he made the situation ordinary, Slaine would hand it over willingly. And so he acquired his own bread, and reached for the jar of strawberry jam, and asked Slaine if he might borrow the knife to spread it. Slaine stared vacantly at him for a very long time, and then simply gave him the knife. It was all very ridiculous, but it worked at least, to his mild and exhausted surprise.

Once the utensil was safely deposited in the sink, Inaho went about cleaning up the mess, and then coaxing Slaine back to bed. The whole thing took a good ten minutes, before he could finally return to blissful sleep. As he drifted off, he felt an arm snake around him, and a face nuzzle into his back, and for the first time since nearly freezing to death that one night without heat, he thought the unsolicited cuddling was a good thing. It meant that Slaine was slumbering soundly in bed, rather than stalking about in the dark with a knife while fast asleep. Hopefully this would not be a frequently occurring event.

In the morning, sunlight streamed through the crack in the curtains as Inaho carefully climbed over the still slumbering Slaine, and made his way to the bathroom to get ready for the day. He splashed water on his face, and brushed his teeth methodically, his mind wandering to bizarre memories from the night. He'd really had the strangest dream…

* * *

 **a/n:** what even is this fic tbh


	5. Adversity's Best Friend

"I wouldn't use that," said Inaho over the rim of his coffee mug. He was reading with breakfast and out of the corner of his eye noticed that Slaine was about to iron something on the bed. The iron he wielded rather clumsily was probably as old as the apartment, which was far too old. Rust was caked to the bottom where steam had once puffed out in its former, more useful days, and Slaine seemed to be fighting with the heat settings. It was probably futile given the quantity of dust that had accumulated on it, suggesting it had not been moved from the closet's top shelf in years. One of the perks of this apartment had been that it was largely furnished, even up to simple amenities. That was not to say that any of them worked, however. After all, the fridge had come stocked, as well, with long-expired dairy and molding produce.

Apparently some part of the iron functioned, for Slaine had ceased fiddling with the dial and begun running it back and forth over his shirt, though not without an inordinate number of violent sneezes. At first it seemed that there would be no issue. Steam puffed out in tiny clouds and the shirt smoothed crisply under the pressure Slaine was carefully applying. But then a steady stream of black smoke began to seep from some crevice, until quite suddenly it was billowing out in great clouds. Slaine yanked it back, but not in time to save his poor, charred shirt.

"I told you not to use it," Inaho reminded before returning to his book, and feeling he had done his part in warning. What other people chose to do with his sound advice was none of his concern. Besides, if he was the sort of person to derive satisfaction from revenge, this would be the moment of triumph, seeing as Slaine had caused the painty demise of several of his own shirts.

Slaine made a loud, frustrated sound, and looked as though he would fling the gadget out the window. "That was my only nice shirt!" he lamented.

"Why do you need one?" Inaho replied, against his better judgment. He should stay out of this, and enjoy his rare morning of leisure. "You don't go anywhere, anyway."

"I'm having lunch with someone," answered Slaine, vaguely.

"With Seylum?" He was fairly certain that Slaine had no other friends. He had never seen him contact or visit anyone else, anyway.

"M-maybe…" came the guilty reply.

Inaho sighed. Perhaps he should help out just this once. Besides, if he allowed Slaine to appear publicly in a ragged t-shirt, it would reflect badly on his own character. Asseylum was perhaps the only person - outside of academics, of course - whose good opinion he made any effort to keep. Especially since this whole living arrangement was her recommendation, and she had, not very long ago, said to him: "I hope you are taking good care of my friend, Inaho," to which he had nodded, and (in the vaguest words possible) assured her that he was. It was not as though he was not, but he would feel guilty if she saw Slaine in his usual state of disarray, when she was fully aware that he was at home on Sundays and would have been able to lend a hand. He set down his book and rose from the table. Going over to the closet, he pulled out a rather appallingly crumpled orange shirt.

"Seriously?!" Slaine squawked, staring at it in despair.

"You don't _have_ to wear it," he defended. How rude.

"It's just as wrinkled as mine! How am I supposed to iron it?"

This was true. It was the same reason he never wore it himself. It was the only shirt that looked terrible no matter how quickly or carefully it was hung up after washing. Of course, it was also the only clean shirt he had at the moment, as today was his laundry day. He added 'iron' to his mental list of things that needed to be purchased at some point, and then gave the current situation some thought.

"You could try steaming it. Hang it in the bathroom while you take a bath."

Slaine took the offered shirt and held it out at arm's length, turning it this way and that to get a better look at it. "Do you think that would actually work?"

"Not really," he answered bluntly. "You could just buy a new one. You'll need to replace the one you scorched, anyway. Or, you could reschedule." The latter option seemed like the most reasonable. Though Slaine really did need to buy more clothes at some point. Not that he ever left the apartment anyway.

Slaine seemed pleased with this solution, though he apparently held rather less enthusiasm for the color of the shirt in question. "Why orange…" he muttered as he headed for the bathroom.

Inaho stared after him, slightly offended. _"What's wrong with orange?"_

About three minutes later there was a scream, and Slaine emerged in a panic, wearing nothing and holding his palm to his forehead. In his other hand was the shirt, dripping wet. He opened his mouth to speak, but sneezed instead.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Inaho. He set down the dish he was washing and reached for the hand towel. "Why did you get it all wet? And where are your clothes...?"

"The faucet came off!"

Inaho stared at him with a vacant expression. "What…?"

"The fa-" another sneeze, "-ucet came off!"

"I heard you, but what do you mean it came off?" He was already heading towards the bathroom, Slaine close on his heels.

Sure enough, sitting at the bottom of the tub was the faucet. The place where it once had been was simply the end of a pipe sticking out between the hot and cold knobs. He glanced over at Slaine, who was now quickly wrapping a towel around his waist, and noticed that he was bleeding.

"Did it hit you in the face?!"

Slaine shivered violently, and then sneezed again.

"Give me that." Inaho snatched the shirt and tossed it out into the apartment. Then he grabbed the nearest washcloth and pressed it to Slaine's gushing forehead. "That could have ended really badly, you know," he commented, noting that it had only barely missed his eye.

Slaine winced and pulled away, "That hurts!"

"Then stop moving."

"What about lunch!" wailed Slaine.

"Tell her you'll come next week. Do you really want to show up like this? You're sick anyway…"

"What?"

"How can you not notice that you're burning up? I thought you might be sick earlier, but now I'm sure of it. You'll probably feel awful soon. You should just stay home."

Slaine's shoulders slumped, and he resigned himself to the gauze and tape Inaho was methodically applying to his face. Inaho was right, and within an hour he was laying in bed with a fever and a large pile of tissues. In the meantime, Inaho went about his usual Sunday routine of cleaning, laundry, reading, etc. It was all a bit more difficult having to be quiet, but Slaine wasn't sleeping much anyway. He watched as Slaine read for a few minutes, and then pushed the book aside with a sigh.

"Do you want some movies or something?" he asked at last, looking down at his languishing housemate. He would have liked to have washed the bed sheets, but that would have to wait till next weekend now. Unless, of course, Slaine took it upon himself to do it during the week, but Slaine hardly ever cleaned, so it was unlikely. In any case, he had finished the rest of the chores, and was preparing to go out for a bit to buy groceries.

"I'm going to the store, if you want anything..." he added, realizing Slaine hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

Maybe he should have made something for him. Taking care of sick people wasn't exactly something he'd done much of in his life, so these things didn't cross his mind. Should he buy medicine, too?

Slaine rolled over to face him, clutching the blanket on either side of his chin. "I'm not hungry…" he sniffed.

"Are you sure?"

In response Slaine nodded once, and then shivered, huddling further under the blanket.

* * *

When he returned, about an hour later with three large bags, Slaine was exactly where he had left him, that is to say, a large round bump at the center of the bed. He set the bags on the table and began putting the groceries away. Then he took out a pan and set it on the stove, and began to prepare a simple soup. He hadn't eaten dinner yet, so he might as well make something for the both of them. That way, if Slaine didn't eat it, he could just put it away for tomorrow.

While the soup simmered away on the stove, he fished through the last bag and drew out a laptop. Normally he left it at the lab, since that was the only place he used it and he didn't quite trust that it would be safe in this dilapidated apartment, but this was a rare occasion, so he had dropped by and picked it up while he was out.

"Move over a little," he said as he lightly poked the warm bundle on the bed.

Slaine peeked out at him, and then slowly complied, scooting towards the wall. Inaho set the laptop down, and then held up four movies. "Which do you want?"

It took Slaine a few minutes of staring and reading with bleary eyes, and then a few more to come to a decision, but eventually he did and Inaho took it out of its case and popped it into the disc drive. After a frustrating amount of hunting around the apartment, he managed to find enough soft things to pile behind Slaine so that he could sit up comfortably to eat. Once Slaine was all set up with food, entertainment, medicine, and a freshly bandaged head, dutifully tasting his soup from within his little nest, he looked over at Inaho.

"Aren't you going to watch, too?" he asked, seeing that Inaho was about to sit down at the table with his dinner.

Inaho took a sip of broth. "I wasn't planning on it…"

"Why not? It's good, you picked it out, too. You should watch it."

"I don't want to."

"It's no fun watching it alone…"

He looked at Slaine in what could only be described as amazement. Was it not enough that he had done all this for him already? And now he had to sit and watch some dumb film with him? Still, Slaine looked so pathetically disappointed, that he couldn't help but give in. How annoying. Groaning internally, he scooped up his bowl and joined Slaine on the bed.

An hour later, bowls stacked in the windowsill and the light of the laptop screen flickering on their faces, Slaine lay fast asleep against his shoulder. "At least stay awake…" he muttered, now trapped watching it alone. The wifi was not working – again – and there was nothing else of interest on his laptop. His book was across the room, of course, and he had no intention of picking up one of Slaine's that were scattered about and piled in the window and stuffed in the crack by the wall. As the movie dragged on, he looked down at the softly snoring, open-mouthed Slaine snuggled against his side, and ran quick calculations of viral incubation periods in his mind. If he was lucky, he wouldn't catch this at all, but with Slaine breathing and sneezing in his face he probably wouldn't avoid it. After forcing himself to pay attention to the movie for another ten minutes, he closed the laptop and set it on the windowsill. Then pulling the blanket snugly over them, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

 **a/n:** because I really needed lighthearted sick Slaine...

Also, to those of you who read Shattered Chains, I apologize for the wait yet again. I've hit a bit of a wall, and so I'm taking a step back. Hopefully I'll be writing it again soon. I absolutely plan to finish!


	6. An Unexpected Deluge

Inaho fished in his pocket for his keys. It was a miserable day, one of those wet, cold, windy sorts where nothing sounds better than a hot bath and warm blankets. And yet here he was, standing outside of his own moderately warm, oddly comfortable home, unable to get quickly inside. Typically, pounding on the door was the fastest way to enter the apartment, since, though the lock had been fixed and Slaine only used it intermittently anyway, something was the matter with the handle now. It tended to stick, probably from the weather. In any case, Slaine was not answering this time, which was particularly odd because today Inaho was home much earlier than usual, and Slaine should be neither away nor asleep in the middle of the afternoon. He set down the large grocery bag he was carrying, which was filled mostly with toilet paper and other bare necessities, and worked on opening the door with both hands. Finally, it opened about a hand's breadth, and then stopped.

At first he thought that there must be some new problem, perhaps with the hinges, but then he realized there was something on the floor that was stopping it from opening any further. Probably something Slaine had left on the floor, but the doorway was a strange and extremely inconvenient place to set things down and then forget about them. Of course, this also meant that Slaine must be at home, unless he had crawled from the window, which was even less likely than his being out at all in the middle of the week during weather like this. He pushed the door harder, until whatever it was slowly gave way. Soon he was able to squeeze through, but the groceries were still out on the balcony. They would have to stay there for now. He sighed, and looked around the apartment for Slaine.

For a very confusing moment, he thought he must have entered the wrong apartment. All around him were books. Stacks of books, crates of books, bags of books, they were everywhere, even trailing into the bathroom and below the table and on top of the fridge. Then he spotted blonde hair poking from beneath the blanket at the far corner of the bed, which was also strewn with books.

"…Troyard?" He tried to rationalize how this could possibly be happening to him, but nothing made sense. Receiving no response, he crawled and stumbled his way over to his housemate, stepping on various novels and a rather large, very outdated encyclopedia like stepping stones in a river, until he reached the bed. "Slaine?!"

This time the name elicited a tragic moan.

"What is all this?" he asked, without much hope of any reasonable answer.

There was no answer. He pulled at the blanket, but Slaine clutched it tightly over his face.

"What's going on?" he pressed.

Feathery hair bounced from side to side as Slaine shook his head vigorously. Having no more patience for this, Inaho snatched the blanket and yanked it back by force. Shocked, reddened eyes stared up at him.

"Where did all these books come from?"

Slaine pulled a pillow over his face and groaned into it. "I don't know! It's not my fault!"

"So… they just appeared…"

The pillow lifted slightly and two miserable eyes peered out. Then, with a resigned little huff, Slaine sat up. "I went to the antique store to look at books," he began rather rapidly, "but there was this old lady at the shop and she started talking to me, and then she asked me if I wanted her late husband's books, because she's moving to another city with her daughter, so I said yes, because I was thinking about a really good plot idea and wasn't paying much attention, and then she said she'd send them over, and these delivery people showed up, and I didn't know how to stop them, they just kept bringing more and more, I need to write, but I can't concentrate because of all these books! What am I supposed to do with two thousand books?! Who owns that many books!"

"You do, apparently." Inaho looked out once again on the sea of literature that was once their apartment, and felt that after this, nothing would surprise him. "Can't you just return them?"

Slaine scrunched his eyes closed. "I would, but I didn't even catch her name. I have no idea who she is or where she lives…"

No less from Slaine the absentminded. He could be unsettlingly perceptive at times, but then things like this happened to convince Inaho that his housemate was generally very distracted and oblivious. Perhaps this was what came of never going out and socializing.

"Why didn't you ask how many books exactly, before agreeing to take them…" He was fairly certain that the answer would be that he was not paying attention, but nevertheless, he asked.

"I think maybe she did mention it," said Slaine, squinting a bit as he tried to recall, "but I wasn't paying attention…"

Ah, there it was. "… of course."

"I was inspired! They were good ideas, I couldn't just ignore them..."

Mhm…

"How was I supposed to know her husband was a bibliophile?!"

Inaho methodically stacked the books that were scattered over the bed in a neat pile by the wall. "You shouldn't agree to things when you're not paying attention. This has to be the contents of a small library. Two thousand…" It was a mindboggling number, and a miracle they fit in this tiny apartment at all.

"But what should I do with them?" Slaine seemed at his wit's end, blinking rapidly to hold back tears.

It was a tricky situation, but hardly something to cry over, in Inaho's opinion. It shouldn't be terribly hard to get rid of them. "You could sell them, I guess. Or give them away."

"What if she finds out? They were her husband's, after all…" Slaine looked at them like the memorial of some tragic love story.

"If she really cared about them, she wouldn't have foisted them off on a stranger. My guess is she's wanted to get rid of them since before her husband even passed on, and she was very glad to find someone dumb enough to take them. As you can see, they take up a lot of room. There aren't really many worth reading, either..."

Slaine nibbled on his bottom lip. "I… suppose that's true…"

"Besides, they're yours now, what you do with your own things is none of her concern."

* * *

After calling several charity shops and antique stores, Slaine spent the remainder of the day rummaging through and picking out books he wanted to keep. The next day, he helped various store employees haul them out to trucks, which carried them away until there were only three small stacks remaining. Those were the ones he had chosen for himself. Inaho had also nabbed three or four, which were neatly put away on his personal shelf. Though Slaine had given most of them away for free, the antique store had paid him for the handful of valuable ones. It was a nice little sum, and Slaine happily pocketed it.

After they had all gone, Slaine crouched in front of his new books. "I guess I should make room for these somewhere," he mused aloud.

"That would be best," replied Inaho as he began preparing his dinner, fully enjoying the return of unrestricted movement through the apartment. Slaine had probably not been seeking a response, but after recent events he never wanted to see another stack of books on his floor again. Where exactly Slaine was going to put the fifty he had decided to keep was a mystery, but hopefully he would manage somehow.

Of course, making room for new things meant going through the old, and now instead of books, Slaine's personal things were strewn all over the floor. Inaho sat in mild irritation at the table, trying to ignore what was going on around him as he replied to emails on his phone. The past three weeks had been especially grueling at the lab, as he'd needed to stay late nearly every night to finish up and then prepare experiments for the next morning. This week, he was much freer, which was nice because the weather had taken a turn for the worse, and he disliked having to be out in it past dark. Eating dinner at home in his comfortable clothes and surrounded by his snug apartment, without having to go directly to bed the moment he entered the door, was a long awaited luxury. And now it was all being ruined by this book fiasco.

Eventually, he relocated to the more comfortable bed, but just before climbing on he spotted something poking out from beneath it. Curious, he leaned down and pulled it out. The thing was an old, ragged plush bird. Its satin beak was threadbare, one wing nearly torn off, and what once had been white was now cream.

"Did this come with the books?" he asked, glancing sidelong at Slaine.

It was only after Slaine's face had turned a deep shade of red that he realized that the toy belonged to him, and had probably been in this apartment since the very first day of their arrival. Somehow it had gotten dragged out with all his other belongings, and accidentally fell into view.

"T-t-that's-!" Slaine sputtered, and then, springing from his seat on the floor, snatched it away. He promptly stuffed it into a box.

Inaho blinked, and then crawled onto the bed. "I don't really care about your childhood keepsakes…" he muttered. "There's no reason to get embarrassed."

Slaine opened his mouth, and then closed it again, his cheeks still burning bright. For a few long seconds they looked at each other, and suddenly Inaho noticed the dust bunnies clinging to Slaine's hair, and the ink smudged on his cheek from a leaky pen, and the little piles of notebooks all around him, because Slaine did not own much of anything practical, and suddenly he wanted to laugh.

He didn't laugh, though, because the frazzled look on Slaine's face was serious. He was still stressing over this. Slaine stressed so easily. With a bit of an inward sigh, Inaho withdrew his gaze, and nestled into the warm bed with one of his newly acquired books – an autobiography of a historically renowned scientist.

"Why don't you take a break?" he suggested casually, turning a page. The rummaging sounds from the floor stopped, and then he heard soft footsteps padding towards him. _"That was fast,"_ he thought.

He was just looking up when Slaine pointed towards the window.

"It's snowing!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up.

The discovery seemed to transform Slaine, and the organizing was abandoned, as were all symptoms of stress. Within ten minutes he had prepared both of them hot cocoa, which miraculously they possessed in their sparse cupboard, and which Inaho had not asked for, but gladly accepted. Slaine crawled unceremoniously over him and curled up with his own book by the window. His eyes were more often on the snow than the book, and Inaho could not help but smile a little at his childish excitement. This was nice, all in all. Despite the chaotic state of their little home, it was cozy, and there wasn't a whole lot they needed to be comfortable. In the sense that he was pleasant, and well-meaning, and never complained about the continuous domestic catastrophes they lived with, but instead cheerfully tried to solve them, Slaine was an ideal housemate. Looking at it that way, he could ignore the odd habits and the irrational tendencies and the many disasters that he inadvertently caused. Inaho sipped his cocoa, letting the warmth settle as he watched the white flakes gently fall outside. It really was a perfect day for books.


	7. Worthwhile Effort

Slaine gazed proudly at the groceries scattered over the table. Shopping was a bit of an arduous excursion for him, and somehow in public places he always seemed to get distracted and forgetful. People made him nervous, especially large numbers of people, which he inevitably encountered at the grocery store. He always ended up forgetting things, including the grocery list, and the excessive variety of options for the same item overwhelmed him. He would spend ten minutes trying to determine the best values, and flavors, and types, because he couldn't remember what it was that he usually bought. Sometimes he couldn't get up the courage to ask someone where an item was, so he simply didn't buy it. And then he would have to stop at another store to search, or come another day. One time, a lady had left her cart in front of the freezer door he needed to get to, and by the time he formulated in his mind how to ask her to move, someone was asking him to move, and he had left the store with nothing but a palpitating heart and sweaty palms. But this time, he was sure he had gotten everything he needed. He had been extra careful to bring his list, and to double check that he had purchased all that it contained before leaving the store.

He was living on his own now, more or less, but doing things on his own was still a bit nerve-wracking. He grew up in a wealthy household where he spent most of his time avoiding the other residents, and hiding from people in general. School had been an ordeal, especially since it had been a small, private school, where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew that he did not belong. The one good thing about it had been that it was where he had met Asseylum, his one and only friend. Well, now he had two. Sort of.

The groceries he had just purchased were ingredients for cookies. Amongst the texts he had obtained the other day there was a large, old cookbook, and, ever curious, he determined to try making something from it. Though he'd never tried to bake before, it didn't seem too complicated. Children could bake, after all. And there was no point in owning a cookbook if it simply collected dust on a shelf. Perhaps he should have gone for something more practical and healthy, but homemade sweets were too tempting, and much more interesting, in his opinion. The ingredients were cheaper, too. Besides, there was another motive to his baking venture.

In lieu of thank you, or goodwill, or apology – he wasn't quite sure which – he planned to share the cookies with Inaho. It did cross his mind that it was probably a strange gift, but he had no earthly idea what other kind of thing Inaho could possibly need or want, and a formal gift might be too much. Casually sharing some food seemed the safest option. It wasn't as though he was planning to package them in pink paper or anything…

Hoping to goodness that Inaho liked lemon, he went about preparations. As he read the first few lines of instructions, it occurred to him that he hadn't thought about kitchen tools. But that was a small obstacle, he could make do without. People baked all the time without fancy things like whisks and… large bowls. Ah. Maybe a saucepan would do? After scrubbing the charred edges of the pan as best he could, he set it down and measured out the butter and sugar. Next was lemon zest. It was very fortunate that the cookbook contained a glossary at the back. After looking it up, he found a little set of directions on various zesting methods. He would have to go with the knife technique, since he was not even entirely sure what a 'zester' looked like, or where he could acquire one.

It was nearly forty-five minutes later that he looked proudly upon his small bowl of lemon zest, neatly minced. Beside it was another bowl of fresh, squeezed lemon juice. Now he could finally proceed.

"With a hand mixer…"

He stared dejectedly at the page for a minute or two before collecting himself and pressing on. A few hurdles on the way were nothing to worry about. He had come this far, after all. It couldn't make too much of a difference if he just used a spoon…

Well, the spoon certainly worked, but it very quickly became clear that there was an exceedingly good reason that most preferred using a mixer of some sort. Feeling his arm might fall off at any moment, and wondering what exactly 'fluffy' meant, Slaine stirred vigorously for about five minutes before he was satisfied with his work. This had to be right… it looked sort of fluffy, anyway. He moved on to the eggs, vanilla, and lemon juice. Those mixed in much easier, though his arm was still aching from the butter and sugar. Getting them in the bowl was the harder part, as the egg broke all over his hand, and the bits of shell that somehow ended up in the bowl were nearly impossible to get out with a spoon. They kept evading being scooped out through some mysterious egg witchcraft, until eventually he dove after them with his fingers. The vanilla poured at an alarming speed, and nearly ended in him adding twice the amount called for. The lemon juice did the same thing, but thankfully he had learned from the vanilla and measured it over the sink instead of the bowl. Or pan, rather. He was very lucky to have found some old measuring spoons in the back of a drawer, though they were a little rusted, and a mouse had seen fit to use one of them as a sort of toilet. It was a good thing he had remembered to buy more dish soap.

It was just after he had finished stirring in the flour and other dry ingredients that Inaho rapped on the door. Apparently he had taken too long with the zesting and stirring and spoon-sanitizing, and now Inaho was home before he had even put them into the oven. Well, no matter. He opened the door, forgetting his hands were covered in flour, and was greeted by two very mystified burgundy eyes. They wandered over his face briefly, and then trailed their way down a bit, before flitting back up to meet his gaze again.

"Why are you covered in flour?" he said at last. "And why do I smell something burning…" he added, craning his neck to look over Slaine's shoulder into the apartment.

Slaine let out a yelp and dashed to the oven. He had set it to preheat and forgotten to check if there was anything inside it first. Sure enough, when he flung open the door, there melting on the bars of the oven rack was a blue plastic bowl with others nested inside it. So that's where the mixing bowls were kept. Meanwhile, after sticking around long enough to make sure that the apartment building would not be going up in flames in the immediate future, Inaho headed for the bath.

Slaine heaved a sigh as he waited for the oven to cool enough for him to scrape the plastic off the bars. The bowls, unfortunately, had to be disposed of. By the time everything was ready for the cookies, which he had not yet finished preparing, Inaho had taken his bath and was meandering over to the bed to read. It was getting kind of late, but he was nearly done. All he had left to do was roll the cookies, put them on the cookie sheet, and…

"Do we have any trays?" he asked slowly, looking in horror at the one small, round baking dish they owned.

Inaho peered over his book at Slaine. "No. Didn't you buy any?"

"I thought I remembered everything!" moaned Slaine. "Now what do I do?!"

"Why don't you ask the lady next door for one?"

Slaine looked at him as though he had suggested murder. "B-but I… can't do that…"

"She's actually very nice. Loud, but nice."

"But…" he frantically smacked the flour from his hands and brushed off his arms.

As he searched for his shoes, Inaho looked at him for a long minute, and then quietly set aside his book and stood up. Before Slaine realized what he was doing, or could protest it, Inaho was out the door.

When Inaho returned with the cookie trays, Slaine was attempting to shape the dough into balls and roll them in powdered sugar. The result was mostly a sticky mess.

"Honestly…" said Inaho under his breath as he set the trays down, rolled up his sleeves, and then took the bowl from Slaine.

Within five minutes he had filled two trays with perfect, round, neatly powdered dough balls. Though he was wondering how it was that Inaho had ended up having to help make these, Slaine gladly put them in the oven and then collapsed into a chair.

"I guess I should clean up now…" he sighed. The kitchen was an absolute wreck.

But no sooner had he stood up, than Inaho began gathering dishes and washing them.

"Ah you don't need to keep helping me… I made the mess so…"

"I don't mind." Inaho rinsed a bowl and set it on a clean towel.

"But I…" He looked around desperately for something he could do to help, but dishes were it, mostly. There were a lot of them.

"You've been doing this for hours, right?" asked Inaho. He was nearly done with the bowls already.

"… ye…yes…"

"Have you eaten anything today?"

It was a good question. Slaine couldn't quite remember, and had to think back on it for a while. "I had some toast… for breakfast…" It was nearly ten at night.

Inaho closed his eyes and exhaled. "That's what I thought. Get something to eat, I'll clean up."

Slaine dutifully ate a sandwich while Inaho finished with the dishes and put everything away. He had somehow made trouble for Inaho again. His last hope was that these cookies would be a success. After an agonizing ten minutes, Inaho took the trays out of the oven and set them on the stovetop. Slaine had wanted to do it, but Inaho made some comment about catching the potholders on fire, and before he knew it he was standing back and watching instead. Inaho was probably right.

He hovered over them, willing them to cool faster. They looked spectacular, but that was Inaho's handiwork. It was the taste that would determine how well he had done. He was busy admiring the cookies, when he noticed that Inaho was retiring to the bed to pick up his book again, which had been so unceremoniously interrupted by the cookie tray outing.

"Don't you want any?" inquired Slaine. Did Inaho not like lemon? With his luck…

Inaho looked up at him, with what may have been surprise. "Oh, they're not for someone else?"

Who else could they possibly be for... unless Inaho thought he was making them for Asseylum. It was a good idea, really, he should make some for her next time. While his thoughts were distracted, out of his mouth tumbled a hasty "what?"

"I thought maybe you were making them for someone," Inaho elaborated.

 _For you, idiot._ "Ah no, they're just for… eating." Now that the time came, he couldn't figure out how to say what he meant. _'Thanks for helping me all the time.' 'I'm sorry I inconvenience you on a daily basis.' 'Let's be friends.'_ Perhaps he'd just leave it at, "you can have as many as you like…"

He quickly put a few warm cookies on a plate and brought them over to Inaho. For several agonizing seconds, he watched as Inaho bit into one, and then carefully chewed it. He probably should have tested one first, before serving them to his housemate, but it was too late for that now. At last Inaho swallowed, and looked up at him.

"These are… actually really good."

"Don't sound so surprised!" Slaine huffed in indignation, though he was beaming inwardly at his success.

Inaho took the entire plate from him without another word, but he didn't return to his book quiet yet. Instead, his eyes were still on Slaine, and he looked almost amused.

"What are you grinning about?!" Slaine eyed him suspiciously.

Inaho took a second cookie from the plate. "You're still covered in flour…"


	8. All Good Things

"What time is it?" Inaho murmured, squinting up at the figure sitting next to him in bed. Slaine was scribbling something in a notebook by moonlight, hair pulled back from his forehead with the aid of a clothespin, and heaving frustrated sighs one after another. Ignored, Inaho fished around for his phone, which inevitably got lost somewhere in the bed, but was surprisingly easy to find tonight. Perhaps because Slaine had not yet had a chance to kick it down the crack at the foot of the bed. When he did see the time, he had to check twice to make sure he had seen it right. Slaine wasn't writing by moonlight. He was writing by the early dawn light.

"Did you sleep?" he inquired, on the off chance that Slaine had simply risen early.

Ignored again. Inaho watched him for a moment, then rolled over and closed his eyes. He didn't know much about writing, but it seemed reasonable that inspiration came when it wanted to, and Slaine's schedule was, well… non-existent, practically. He could afford to sleep during the day if he needed to. All in all, it was good to see him working on something, though right then he appeared more frustrated than ever. Over the past several weeks, Slaine had been rather down about something, and Inaho could only guess that it had to do with his writing, which Slaine seemed to avoid entirely at times, and obsess over at others. Sometimes, when Inaho returned from the lab, there would be balls of paper strewn across the apartment, and Slaine would be sleeping, or pretending to sleep, with the blanket pulled over his head, and a half-eaten cup noodle in the windowsill. Thinking that it would be nice if Slaine was able to get past whatever this was soon, Inaho drifted off to sleep again.

After the fourth night in a row of the same, repeating scenario, Inaho finally decided to intervene. Not only was it wearing him out, being woken periodically throughout the night, but the dark circles that had begun to take up residence beneath Slaine's exhausted eyes told him that there was not much sleeping going on here while he was away during the day either. Slaine needed to rest - he'd probably end up terribly ill at this rate.

"You really should get some sleep…" he said drowsily, and to ensure Slaine's notice this time, he put his hand over the notebook Slaine was vehemently scratching out sentences from. In hindsight he probably could have been accidentally stabbed by a pencil just then, but the action seemed to have caught Slaine's attention, and so all's well that ends well.

Slaine's eyes darted to him, a hint of surprise and annoyance in them. "What are you doing?" he asked in an uncharacteristically snappish tone. Even more reason to take action.

"Prioritizing your health for you." Inaho drew the notebook out of the other's hands, closed it, and set it on the windowsill. "Get some rest."

He watched Slaine carefully during the silence that followed. Defeated eyes stared ahead unseeingly for half a minute before he sunk slowly under the covers, rolled over to his side and, perhaps, tried to sleep.

* * *

The next night Inaho woke not to the sound of scribbling and pages turning, but instead to very faint sniffling. He opened his eyes, letting them focus on the scene around him before determining what was going on. Slaine was sitting up beside him again, quietly crying.

After lying there pretending to be asleep for a good five minutes, eventually in the fog of his waking mind, Inaho tried to think of what to do. It was none of his business, really, but he was finding it more and more difficult to ignore Slaine's distress, and so he racked his brain for some means of consoling him. The usual methods he'd seen and heard employed were all rather bothersome. Hugs, gentle words, soft singing - he'd sooner go back to sleep.

He'd nearly managed to nod off again when he remembered Asseylum reminiscing once about how she and Slaine used to eat ice cream after school, and how much Slaine seemed to enjoy it. His happiness back then was probably in response to her company, rather than the ice cream, but it was still worth a shot, and by some miracle he actually had some in the freezer. The routine of buying it, when he almost never ate it himself, was probably a residual habit from his days at home.

"Here," he muttered, pushing the container into Slaine's hands and sticking the spoon into it.

Slaine looked up at him with wide, wet eyes. Then he stared at the dessert as though it was some foreign object.

"You do like mint chocolate chip, right?" Inaho asked as he crawled back into bed and slipped under the warm covers. He had fulfilled his objective, now for sleep, if and when he could restore the feeling to his frigid hands. Promptly dismissing the thought of toasting his fingers on Slaine's warm thigh, which was the closest heated thing to him, he closed his eyes and wished for sleep.

Not half a minute later, he felt a hand nudging his shoulder. "Don't you want any?" asked Slaine.

He shook his head. "No thanks." It was way too cold for that, though somehow Slaine didn't seem bothered in the least by it, and was thoughtfully spooning it into his mouth, tired eyes staring down into his lap. At least he was no longer crying.

Inaho was, again, finally drifting off when the sniffling returned. It wasn't exactly surprising that ice cream alone wasn't enough to fix whatever issue was going on, but he couldn't help but be a little disappointed at how little his effort had actually helped. Despite feeling on the verge of violently shivering and generally freezing to death, even while tucked snug beneath the bedspread, he sat up next to Slaine and snatched the container. After a few mouthfuls, he handed it back and took a deep breath. "Why are you crying?" he asked, straight to the point. It was too late at night and too cold to waste time beating around the bush anymore.

Slaine stared into the ice cream, poking it sullenly with the tip of the spoon.

"You don't have to tell me, but it might help to get it off your ch- _hic-_ est." Inaho blinked. Hiccups? Odd…

He waited for Slaine to answer. Instead, Slaine put a hand over his mouth to stifle a quiet giggle. "What?" asked Slaine from behind his fingers.

Inaho opened his mouth to repeat himself but all that came out was another, louder " _hic-!"_

Slaine giggled again, not bothering to hide it this time, and Inaho realized that he was, in fact, being laughed at. He didn't mind, but he also didn't see what was so funny about it. " _Hic-!_ "

This time Slaine lost it. The ice cream might have ended up overturned all over the bedspread in his hysteria had Inaho not seized it hastily and set it on the windowsill. He rubbed his hands on his arms to warm them. It was far too cold for- " _hic-!"_ \- ice cream.

When eventually Slaine regained his composure, dried his eyes with the back of his hand, and retrieved his frozen treat, the hiccups became but a minor interference with their conversation.

"I'm… not doing so well…" Slaine admitted vaguely, in answer to Inaho's earlier question, and he seemed to sink back into his former depression as quickly as he'd laughed a moment ago.

That answer was practically useless. Inaho pressed further. "In what way?"

Slaine was silent for a long time. "Um… financially, I guess," he said at last, avoiding eye contact by inspecting his spoon, "I don't know how long I'll be able to stay here… I don't really know what to do. I should get a job someplace, but I -" he bit his lip and looked as though he was trying very hard not to cry again, "I don't know how to do anything. I can't afford college… I… can't go back home… maybe I'd be alright without a place for a while."

"You'd freeze this time of year. There's no need for you to go anywhere."

Slaine shook his head. "But you need someone to pay the other half of the rent. I'm sorry, this is inconveniencing you a lot…"

"No, I can afford it. I'm living here because it allows me to put more towards paying for other things, but I don't need to do that. Just pay what you can until you've figured things out."

"Th-that's… too generous… I can't."

"Why not? You can pay me back someday if that's what you're worried about."

"I don't want you to be in debt because of me. I'm…" he shook his head again, "not worth it. Honestly, I only cause everyone trouble. Maybe you can find another person, I'm sure there are others needing someplace to-"

"No. I don't want someone else. I want you."

It had taken him months to realize it, but he was actually pretty lucky to have ended up sharing this place with Slaine. Coming home to find his housemate sleeping in a valley of books, because he stayed awake researching until nine in the morning, or at the kitchen table concentrating very hard on conquering some new recipe that he'd probably forgotten to buy half the ingredients for, or using his favorite mug for rinsing paintbrushes, but always there, industriously trying his best at something, had added a sort of anti-routine element to his life that he never knew he wanted. Chaotic as things often got, it was nice living here with Slaine. Even if he slept by a drafty window to keep from being kicked out onto the floor in his sleep - though the stars really were beautiful, and sleeping beside another person really was so warm - he couldn't imagine living in this shabby place or sharing this cramped bed with anyone else.

Slaine looked at him for a long time, searching his eyes as though he was trying to find some answer. At last Slaine closed his own and shook his head. "Thank you, really… you've been so kind to me... but I can't afford to owe anyone else. I was stupid to think I could do this on my own. I'm... really sorry," he pulled his knees up to his chest under the blanket and buried his face in them, apologizing several more times.

Grateful that the hiccups had finally released him, as he doubted they would have a cheering effect at this point, Inaho quietly considered what to do about the situation. The fact that Slaine seemed to think he was some kind of failure for not being entirely self sufficient at twenty-two, when, from what Inaho could tell, no one had bothered to prepare him for anything, was of itself concerning. What kind of household did he come from? Slaine had always seemed withdrawn and spacey, which could usually be attributed to his bookish tendencies, but Inaho was beginning to wonder if it was a sign of something else. Especially since Slaine did not even consider returning home to be an option. Anyway, if Slaine wouldn't accept any kind of monetary aid, he would simply have to aid Slaine in making his own money.

"Do you need someone to read over your drafts? Even professionals get second opinions," he added the last bit before Slaine could reject the offer.

He rejected it, anyway. "I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You're not asking. I'm asking. It's not money, it's time, so if you really want to pay me back, give me your time."

Slaine looked at him questioningly as he crawled out of bed to put the ice cream away. "My time? What for?"

"There are actually a lot of errands I've not had time or energy to do. You don't need any special skills to return library books." Most of the things he had in mind were actually piling up due to the unpleasant weather and his reluctance to venture out in it, but he didn't need to mention that. Slaine didn't seem to care about snow, anyway. "I could also use a gift for someone's birthday in a month or so, if you're up to painting."

Slaine had stopped crying by this point, and by the furrowed brow and pressed lips, seemed to be giving his answer some intense thought.

"O-okay…" he relented at last.


End file.
